The Letter
by NairobiWonders
Summary: This is post 2x23 and 2x24 - so spoilers! Joan and Sherlock separate and come back stronger. Joanlock. Final chapter just posted. Thank you for sticking with it!
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock and Joan cleared Mycroft of the charges against him and left him late last night with MI6 to be debriefed. They arrived home late and exhausted. Few words were exchanged between them and she soon went off to bed.

Morning came too quickly for Joan. She stretched, opened her eyes and focused on the pillow beside her. A letter. Joan reached for and opened the envelope, startled to find a small bag of what she knew to be heroin along side the handwritten letter from Sherlock. She sat up suddenly, a heaviness forming in the pit of her stomach.

She started reading:

Watson,

You no doubt have identified the contents of the small package I include with this missive. Do not worry. I took it in a moment of weakness. It is the only one I took and I am turning it over to you to demonstrate that my resolve and my sobriety are strong. I am not in any more danger of relapse than I have been since I started this process.

I write to let you know that I have left the brownstone and will be gone for an indeterminate period of time. You, of course, are welcome to stay as long as you wish. I still consider it your home, even if you do not. All I ask is that, should you find a new residence, you take Clyde with you. If that is not within your abilities, please ask Ms. Hudson to take care of him. She is quite fond of the small reptile, as he is, I assume, of her. I have made arrangements with a fellow apiarist to care for my bees so you shan't be burdened with that chore. I trust this man implicitly and he will call you to make arrangements so as not to intrude on your privacy should you remain at the brownstone.

As stated, I don't know how long I shall be away but will inform you prior to my return so you will have time to vacate the premises should that be your desire. I have informed Captain Gregson I will no longer be available to consult but that should you wish to continue, you would contact him. I have faith in your abilities to fly solo, as it were. Since I will have no income, I will only be able to take care of your monetary needs for the next two weeks or so. I have left you a small stipend to cover your expenses. I know this may be a financial hardship on you and I apologize, but as stated, the brownstone is at your disposal and I know you can pick up work quite easily.

On a personal note, after talking to Mycroft last night, I have come to realize that Moriarty was quite right, we can never truly know anyone. You may consider yourself relieved of the burden of my care. I will forever hold you in the highest esteem. I wish you all the best. Take care of yourself.

Sherlock Holmes

P.S. Please do not contact me unless it is a matter of extreme urgency as it may endanger both our lives.  
S.  
-

A cold pain gripped her. Joan was at a complete loss. The letter felt impersonal, even for Sherlock, as if he were dismissing an employee. What had Mycroft said to him?

She heard the front door open and shut. Joan bolted out of bed, ran downstairs and out the door in time to catch a glimpse of him as he opened the taxi door.

"Sherlock!" She yelled after him. He had a small valise in one hand that he threw in the back seat. Sherlock turned and looked at her, raised his hand up in farewell and got in the taxi. He didn't look back. She watched the taxi disappear up the tree-lined street.

Joan ran inside and got her phone. She called his number. The phone rang and rang but he never picked up and the call never went to voice mail. He was gone.

Joan felt like she was drowning. She needed to explain things to him. This couldn't end this way. She dialed Mycroft's number.

As soon as he picked up, she yelled at him, "Where is he going? Where is Sherlock going? What did you say to him?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say, Joan." The patronizing smugness of his tone sickened her.

She calmed the rage building inside her, "If anything happens to him ..." she took a breath.

"Joan, you are no longer responsible for him. I thought that might be a relief..." His voice mocked her.

Watson lost it, "I want you, you vile piece of excrement, to stay as far away from me and from Sherlock as humanly possible or I will pummel ...!"

He cut her off before she could finish. "You're even beginning to sound like Sherlock. I did you a favor." Mycroft hung up not giving her a chance to answer.

Grief washed over her in waves. She went to his chair, curled herself into it and let the tears flow.


	2. Chapter 2

It was cold. The temperature in the cab was not to his liking. Everything in his life as of late was not to his liking. He felt raw and vulnerable. His world had been tossed into the air and everything with which he was familiar, which gave him the slightest comfort, had landed far afield and askew. Sherlock had no choice but to plow his way through and try to make it all right again. He sincerely doubted anything would truly be alright ever again.

At least she was safe. He took the assignment on two conditions: MI6 would make sure to keep Watson out of harm's way and they would keep Mycroft uninformed as to Sherlock's whereabouts and of Watson's protected status. He did not trust his brother to hold his or Joan's best interests in his black heart.

The taxi turned onto the expressway. Traffic was moving briskly for this hour of the morning. Sherlock allowed himself a small indulgence, a thought of Watson. That look on her face. He sighed and looked out the cab's window. That look on her face when he turned and waved goodbye ... it had crushed him. Perhaps he was wrong about her lack of feelings. He took Mycroft's comments with a grain of salt but understood his brother well enough to know there was a kernel of truth in what he said. Watson had told him almost the same thing herself. He was not enough for her. She needed more. Sherlock twitched and fidgeted, pulling at his jacket, moving his valise two inches to the left, hoping that the movement would drive the image of her face out his mind...

But the thoughts presented themselves once more. What was it she needed? He could not even begin to understand what she wanted. Mycroft, that pompous ass, had been right, Watson was the person he loved most in the world. But she, she felt otherwise. Turned out to be just her sense of responsibility that kept her with him. He felt hurt and exposed, once more on the outside looking in. Moriarty, insane though she may be, was right, trying to connect with others is not a worthwhile endeavor.

Sherlock sighed again and ground his palms into his eyes The feeling of emptiness, of being alone on the planet was crawling over him again. It was familiar, he'd lived with it much longer than he had with Watson. He cared for Watson enough to hope she found what that "more" was even if it took her away from him. He would miss her though, not really sure he'd be ever able to let her go completely. She would always be his Watson.

The cab turned off the expressway towards the terminals. Time to put all this away. There was a puzzle to solve, at least his mind would be kept busy and away from thoughts of her. He was strong. As long as he knew she was safe, he could continue.


	3. Chapter 3

For the rest of the day, Joan and the brownstone sat in mourning; the house silent, save for creaks and tiny groans produced in sympathetic accompaniment to her small gasps and stilted cries. Numbness eventually overtook her grief, leaving her unable to act or think except in elliptical patterns that brought her back to where she started. ... She went over and over the words in his letter. Why? Why did he take the heroin? Was he now in danger of a relapse? Where was he going, had he placed himself in harm's way on purpose? Was it her fault? Had she hurt him? She needed to talk to him, needed to tell him everything was alright, he wasn't a burden, he was her friend ... Grief came round again and displaced the numbness causing tears to once more spill.

Joan was aware enough to know this crisis was not all due to Sherlock's leaving. The events of the past week haunted her. Fear, anxiety would suddenly swell within her, suffocate her and just as quickly vanish. Joan had seen herself acting out, saying things, doing things that just were not her but had felt powerless to stop. She needed help, needed to talk to someone but emotional fatigue mired her and she could not move forward.

Anger rose towards Sherlock for leaving her when he, better than anyone, knew the trauma she had suffered. Joan railed against him and his insensitivity, only to quickly stop, the sadness enveloping her at the thought of how he must hurt as well.

Throughout the day the phone had rung a few times, Alfredo, Gregson, a solicitor. Each time her heart jumped, but after verifying it wasn't him, she'd let the calls pass through to voice mail, promising herself to answer them tomorrow.

The day eventually turned grey and faded into darkness. She managed to move herself away from his chair, ending up on the sofa for the night. The slight scent of him on the pillows brought tears and she eventually fell into a dulling sleep.

The phone ringing startled her awake. She grabbed at it, answering without checking the caller id.

"Hi, Joan? Its Dr. Reed."

Joan cleared her throat and sat up, "Hi, Dr. Reed." She skewed her voice into a normal range. This was her therapist from last year, she didn't want her to know what an utter mess she had made of her life.

"Joan, I'm going to be direct here. I received a voice mail yesterday from a friend of yours who was terribly worried about your well being. He told me of the events of the past week or so and asked that I check in on you. This is not the way I usually operate but his sense of urgency and concern plus the nature of your trauma convinced me ..."

"Sherlock?" her voice was frail and small.

"Yes. I have my whole afternoon free today. Why don't you come on in around one." Her voice was warm and reassuring.

"I'm not sure I can..." tears were rolling down her face, her voice wavered, "I have some ... errands and uh ... I..."

"Joan, either you come see me or I will come see you..."

"Alright ... Alright, I will be there." She hung up and found herself enraged that Sherlock still managed to control her life even after he had abandoned her and just as quickly as it came the anger faded as she thought of him alone somewhere, still trying to look out for her well being. Joan wished she could talk this out with him, let him know he too was cared for. Instead, she stood, took a breath and talked herself through preparing for this day, her first day alone, trying to regain a sense of normalcy.

Reality began to shine through the crevices of the wall she had created to numb the pain. She needed to deal with these emotions head on, take charge and take care of herself.


	4. Chapter 4

Life quickly settled into a rhythm for him, not pleasant nor unpleasant, just a constant expected beat. Sherlock had gone through a week of briefing and training for his assignment (total waste of time in his opinion) and was now out in the field. His job was solely to observe, deduce and report back. The situation around him was tense but not as dangerous at it appeared on first blush. It unfortunately left him with some occasional downtime - time to think and even worse, to feel. He filled these moments with experiments, research, any activity that kept his thoughts from straying to New York City and to his partner. Watson's safety was not an issue, he told himself, so there was no need to be concerned, to reminisce, to dwell... but for all his mental gyrations and attempts at compartmentalization, he ended most nights wishing he could just sit with her in silence by the fire for a moment.

A form of melancholy visited him this quiet evening when he thought of her, wondering where she was. He wondered if she had accepted Dr. Reed's help, if she'd moved past some of the trauma she had suffered, if she had found whatever it was she was needing, if she was relieved that he was not there. The melancholy soon turned to self-hate and he berated himself for putting her in danger, for being inconsiderate and cold, selfish when she should have been a better friend. Sherlock told himself Watson had moved on, and so should he. Solitude was his. No more attempting to form social connections. Not worth the effort.

He turned to old habits to quiet the mind. The conspiracy theory boards would do the trick. Sherlock knew better than to log on to the forum with his usual alias and created a new identity for himself - "justheretowatch." That should throw the regulars for a loop. He would observe. Make no comments.

Sherlock scrolled and jumped from topic to topic "What are they spraying," "Traffic Cameras searching for extraterrestrials," "CIA recruited Justin Beiber." Nothing really interesting tonight, he thought. Then he saw it. In the list of registered users currently in the forum - his user name. Someone had logged in as him. This was interesting. No one knew he frequented this site, nor his password or his username. Sherlock's first thought was some hacker from Everyone must have been bored and decided to cause problems. He clicked on his name and went to the topic "he" had commented in "Hybrid Roosters from the Future."

There he found "he" had posted: "u ok miss u"

That was all. Several replies had been entered under the message analyzing it, concluding it was possibly a threat to the universities of Oklahoma and Mississippi. He snorted at the ridiculousness of his fellow conspiracy theorists and in the same breath froze as he realized who had placed that there for him to find...


	5. Chapter 5

By necessity, the brownstone was relegated to use as an office of sorts during the day but coming into the empty house every morning hurt. She missed Sherlock; she missed his exuberance in attacking a new case, the bombastic pronouncement of his conclusions, his voice trumpeting her name, but most of all she missed their quiet times together, sitting in each others company, just knowing he was there.

At Dr. Reed's insistence, she had moved out of the brownstone into a month to month rental. This gave Joan her own space where she could find solace and sanctuary, where she was not living with the memories that hid behind every plaster crack and scuff mark on the floor. She knew, of course, the trauma of the abduction and murders she witnessed would be with her for a long time but in the few weeks since Sherlock's departure and her starting therapy, the nightmares and sudden anxiety attacks had lessened. Joan started taking control of her life.

As Sherlock had predicted, work was easy to find. More of a challenge for her was explaining to Gregson and Bell what had occurred in the past month and the disappearance of Sherlock. She skirted the personal issues and flat out avoided anything about her abduction, the NSA, MI6 and Mycroft. Joan did not out and out lie to them but she was guilty of many a sin of omission. The detectives knew there was more to the story and chose to let it be for now, happy to have her deductive skills available to them. Joan by necessity also took on private work. The cases were small but her success in both the private and public consulting work boosted her self confidence and helped ease her way through the personal trauma. Dr. Reed was quite pleased at her progress.

In the quiet moments though, between cases, her thoughts would turn to him. The partnership was never meant to end; she just needed some space and time to breathe and reacquaint herself with what she wanted, who she was. He had not understood. Frankly, Joan was angry with Sherlock for his disappearance. She surmised he was out there somewhere working for MI6 as a sort of penance or perhaps a vain attempt to right the wrong. But he made the decision without her, a decision that affected her life as well as his. For all her trying to understand his motivation, it just felt like he had run away, abandoned her when things became difficult.

Her anger was tempered with concern. Who knew what harebrained situation he had gotten himself involved in. He was a genius on some levels and on others he was no better than a ten year old boy. Sherlock had requested no contact but she needed to know he was safe.

Randomly at first and then more methodically, she checked his on line haunts. No one knew Sherlock better than she did and it was a simple matter to pull site history from his computers; she worked out his aliases and passwords easily. Surprisingly, the password that she could not crack was at The Hive, a beekeepers' board - a hundred variations of euglassia watsonia failed to gain her access.

For days, Joan surveilled his most frequented sites, but never saw a trace of him. He never logged in, not even for emails. He had truly disappeared. In frustration, Joan ended up logging in as Sherlock at the one site so full of paranoid and odd threads that she felt comfortable not arousing suspicion because everything on this forum aroused suspicion. The conspiracy boards were rife with so many confusing messages that her message: "u ok miss u" just blended in with the rest.

Joan's message brought no response from him but it did bring several way out interpretations of her message that left her expecting Homeland Security to breakdown her door at any moment. She kept checking though, stake outs whether physical or virtual required a lot sitting and waiting. The following week her patience was rewarded. A new thread appeared and immediately caught her eye. "Tortoises are always home." She opened the thread started by Justheretowatch and found an interesting little post:

"The tortoise is quite self sufficient, carrying his home wherever he goes, he is safe if not necessarily happy. He is a slow creature but is sure to make his way back to where he commenced."

The smile started small and broadened across her face. This was all she needed for now: he was alive and safe and planned to somehow make his way back home.


	6. Chapter 6

Time passed too quickly and not fast enough for him . . .

It was about two in the morning. An ancient desk lamp kept the darkness around him at bay, producing barely enough light to drape over his hunched shoulders and illuminate his work. Sherlock sat in the deafening silence, scouring page upon page of numerical data. This was not what he had envisioned when he agreed to work for MI6. Berlin, the Middle East, Prague - those were the locations for espionage. Instead, Sherlock sat in a dingy hotel room in Maracaibo, Venezuela, trying to find the connections between shipping cartels and organized crime in Britain. His thoughts wandered back home to Brooklyn. His thoughts as of late always seemed to find their way back home to Brooklyn.

Home had little to do with housing structures and geographical locations and everything to do with the people who populated said structures and locations. Two months had passed since he'd left her.

Sherlock's message to her, sent nine days ago, had met with no reply. He assured himself this was a good thing. Joan needed time alone, out of his "orbit" as she had put it. He consoled himself with the thought that at least she had cared enough about his well being to make the initial contact.

Staring blankly at the spreadsheet before him, he let out deep sigh. He needed to get used to being alone again, back into the hazy mist, on the periphery of the light that every one else seemed to live in. He thought he had found his better half, a partner to share life and work. But she didn't see it that way, she didn't feel what he felt, she needed and wanted something other than him and the life he offered.

"So be it. Her loss." He slammed down the papers and rose to stretch. The ego soothing bravado kicked in and just as quickly faded at the thought of her. Joan deserved all the happiness in the world and Sherlock would never be the source of that happiness.

He sat there wishing he could call Alfredo and wondering how Randy was getting along with his new sponsor. Yes, he truly was a failure in every aspect of his life save his work. He had messed up Watson's life and Randy's - perhaps rehab had been the wrong solution, things should have run their course. More people would be happier at the moment if it had.

Stop! This train of thought needed to be stopped immediately before the empty hole in his soul consumed him again and he disappeared altogether. Sherlock picked up his laptop and plopped down on the bed, the metallic squeals of the springs snapping him back into the reality of his present situation.

The Hive, the site always soothed him. He didn't login as himself just in case. He knew there was very little chance of any one caring, but better to stay paranoid and safe.

Sherlock saw it immediately. Someone had logged in as him and posted:

_Living in hope the_

_gravity of my desire_

_Pulls you home to me_

Warmth spread through him followed by disbelief. It had to be Watson. But a poem and dare he say one full of ardor? The last time they spoke she wouldn't even look at him. It must a cruel joke ...

And then he realized what had happened, brought his hands up and covered his face. His poems! She had found his stupid, adolescent paeans to all that she was to him and he could never, would never express. Insipid droolings that he'd so carefully hidden at the site within notes about his bees.

All the lights at the brownstone were blazing. Sherlock had been responsible for the finances before he left but taxes and licenses and fees needed to be paid and would not wait for his return. Joan was on a mission to find the paperwork she needed. She pulled out several file folders from his desk while looking for the proper records. One beat up manila folder caught her eye; scrawled in pencil on the outer tab it said "The Hive." Opening it she noticed that among the scribbled notes on his beehives, the pages of bee research pulled from the site itself and detailed photographs of the euglassia watsonia, was a printed out page of a poem - Lord Byron's "She Walks in Beauty." So much for the man being post love she thought. Immediately her thoughts went to the password for The Hive website that she'd not been able to crack. Anger soon rose within her - that the poem was obviously a reference to Moriarty. After all, he kept her letters in the hive. Poor man will never be free of that bitch. Joan didn't think Moriarty's name itself was the password, too simple a solution. Perhaps a part of the poem itself was the key. Joan skimmed the poem in her hands for clues and soon realized it had very little to do with Moriarty, no raven tresses on that bleached blonde and there was nothing innocent left on that carcass of hers.

She opened the site and attempted the first line of the poem as the password. Immediate access was gained to his profile, his stored documents, his writings. Flipping through some of the posts in his private blog, she came across more poetry, his own poetry. The man was always a surprise. Joan found three poems -

_Infinite compassion_

_Tempered by wisdom_

_A gift I did not deserve_

__\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_

_Breath is caught on sight_

_Slowly released it follows_

_Her away from me_

_-/ -/ -/ -/ _

_Symmetrical perfection_

_Angered and aware_

_of my many limitations_

_Her beauty radiates from half-closed eyes_

_Fills the room with light and forgives_

_My love_

Her eyes filled with tears and a small faint sound escaped her lips. Joan set herself to work and wrote a small poem for him. Fear kept her from posting right away, she stared at the screen, insecurity gnawing on her insides: what if these poems weren't about her? She eventually convinced herself that it did not matter - she wanted him to know he was cared for. Joan hit the "post" button on the thread in The Hive's miscellaneous boards, and hoped he would find it soon.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Twice a week Joan met with Dr. Reed. The sessions helped her process her emotions, her fears, her anger about her abduction and the killings she witnessed. Understanding that the trauma would not just be immediately wiped away, Dr. Reed worked with Joan to find ways to cope and understand what was happening when the anxiety attacks struck. She also steered Joan into talk about the Holmes brothers even though it made Joan infinitely uncomfortable to do so. Dr. Reed waited her out and slowly Joan opened up about what had occurred with Mycroft.

Joan admitted she had repressed all her emotions for so long that when Mycroft came along she saw him as a safe option. He was someone who she, on a subconscious level, knew she could not and did not want a long term relationship with. She had used Mycroft as much as he had used her. Joan carefully tried to skirt around talking about Sherlock, but Dr. Reed would have none of that.

Dr. Reed asked her directly, "Do you have feelings for Sherlock? Is he the reason you chose Mycroft? Was that a way to separate yourself from Sherlock?"

"Of course I have feelings for him. He's my friend, at this point my closest friend. I value..."

Dr. Reed cut her off, "You're not answering my question, Joan. You know what I asked you and you are just stating the obvious. Do you have deeper feelings for Sherlock than just friendship?"

Joan stared at her, not really knowing how to answer. "I don't know. Our lives are so wrapped around each other, I don't know. That's partially the reason I wanted to move out... to sort all this .. sort out what I want. I've changed and I'm not sure what I feel ... He said to me before he left that he no longer knew what I was. Well, I don't either."

In their conversation Joan let slip that she was still spending most of her day at the brownstone and that she had been in recent communication with Sherlock, but she kept to herself the nature of those communications. Hanging around conspiracy theorist boards on the odd chance Sherlock would post something sounded pathetic enough, without admitting posting haikus at a bee forum for him to find.

"Joan, I can't tell you what to do, but I can strongly suggest that you need to take this opportunity and pull yourself out of this situation. Clear your head. Stop living in his space, stop going to the brownstone, stop the detective work if you can afford it for the next month or so. Go away, anywhere, if you can't afford France, go to Trenton. Just get yourself away from his circle of influence.

Joan objected, .."you're talking about him like he has some sort of Svengali hold over me. That isn't the case ... I am not some weak willed being without a mind of her own."

"That's not what I'm saying. You need time to choose for yourself, to establish once more a sense of who you are and consciously choose what you want. ... I think you also should consider stopping these communications..."

Once more Joan cut her off, "But he left under the impression I consider him a burden. I don't want him out there alone thinking no one cares about him, and that's what he'll think if I stop communicating."

"Yes, but he left you remember? You are still taking care of him. He seems utterly capable of taking care of himself, Joan. This is more about you than it is about him. You seem to need someone to take care of. Let's try to take care of you for a change. He is not trying to take care of you, is he?"

Joan looked away, pursing her lips, and slightly shaking her head, "Actually he is. He is responsible for me being here with you. If he hadn't reached out to you, I doubt that I would have. ... I also have a suspicion that I'm under a some sort of friendly surveillance ... But that could be a byproduct of spending too much time with Everyone."

Dr. Reed looked at her with a confused expression. Joan didn't want to elaborate. She was beginning to build a certain amount of resentment toward Dr. Reed, Emily, her family - they wanted her to be like they were, "normal," to live in their world of 9 to 5 and sunshine. She had tried hard all her life to fit that mold, had convinced herself that's what she wanted. But really that was just not who she was anymore and sometimes she thought she never really had been.

Joan eventually agreed to take Dr. Reed's advice. She knew she needed to clear her head. If at the end of her time away, she still felt the same about the work and Sherlock, then she would know it was her own decision and not coming from a form of dependency.

Ms. Hudson agreed to take care of Clyde while she was away and check in on the house. She told Gregson and Bell she would be abroad for a few weeks and although they weren't happy with the news, they understood. The difficult part of all this was going to be not communicating with Sherlock, not worrying about him, staying away from what had been her life for the past two years. Joan took money out of savings and booked herself a vacation out of the country.

-:- -:- -:- -:- -:- -:- -:- -:- -:- -:-

Sherlock stared at the poem Joan had written, mouthing each word, cherishing the perceived sentiment, the movement of the words - a haiku, five syllables, seven then five ... And bang it hit him - of course! The numbers he had been studying, trying to coax some sense from. It was not about the numbers themselves but the rhythm, the sequence.

"My god, even two thousand miles away you are still opening doors for me," he whispered at the screen. His enthusiastic jump off the bed was accompanied by the grateful squeaks of the rusty metal springs. Sherlock attacked the papers with new eyes and shortly got the information from the spreadsheets that he spent days trying to ascertain prior to receiving Joan's poem.

Tomorrow morning he'd meet his handler and see what the next step for him would be. He wished he could talk to Watson, thank her for the inspiration and much more so for her care, for letting him know he was not alone. But the circumstances right now, after deciphering the coded information, were dangerous for contact. Sherlock hoped she would understand.


	8. Chapter 8

Heathrow was crowded, but then Heathrow is probably always crowded, she thought. Boarding on her connecting flight to Milan didn't commence for 45 minutes and she was looking for a quiet spot in which to sit. Joan just wanted to be alone. She spotted an empty chair in a corner behind a kiosk. It was secluded, away from the hum of the international terminal and it's traffic. As she approached the seat, rolling her carry-on behind her, she saw a pair of outstretched legs; the body belonging to the legs was obscured by the corner post of the kiosk. Great! Someone had already staked out the territory. Undaunted, she proceeded past him and sat. She gave him a couple of empty chairs as buffer. They could share the solitude.

He-of-the-outstretched-legs glared at her as she sat. Joan observed and methodically evaluated her seating companion: twenty-one years of age at most and from his clothing, attitude, and what she gleaned from his laptop as she walked by, he was American, studying abroad, failing miserably, massively homesick and anemic. Satisfied with her conclusions, she settled in her chair and looked around for her next victim.

In years to come they would argue about who spotted who first.

He was walking briskly along, hours early for his flight but being a nervous flyer he was always early. His rationale: Best to get to know and assess those with whom you will be locked into a metal cylinder for hours while traveling thousands of feet above terra firma. Sherlock saw her out of the corner of his eye, stopped dead in his tracks and almost caused a small pile up of tourists to occur behind him. It couldn't be, but there she was, not more than twenty feet away. Why was she here? He couldn't approach her on the slim chance it might put her at risk. Was she alright? Was she here because of him? Did she need help? All thoughts at once slammed into his brain and all he could manage was to find a seat facing her, and attempt to detangle his thoughts.

Joan spotted him at almost the same moment; the nanosecond in delay of recognition caused only by Sherlock's full beard and longer hair. But there was no denying it was him, every gesture and movement of his shoulders, hands, eyes screamed his name to her. Why was he here? Was this coincidence? He seemed just as surprised to see her as she was to see him. His words about avoiding contact for fear of danger came back to her. She wouldn't approach him, he might be undercover, under surveillance. She wouldn't risk his life.

They furtively stole glances at each other. Joan and Sherlock had an innate ability to communicate without words. He noticed this from the very first day she came into his life, when she pointed out the shoe size of a potential suspect to him with just a glance. A softening of his face let her know it was a joy for him to see her. A slight movement of her head down and to the side acknowledged his reaction and reciprocated his feelings. Her eyes searched him to make sure he was alright. He reassured her with the smallest of head bobs and an easing back into his chair as he maintained eye contact with her. Her lips compressed into a line in satisfaction of her question as he searched her face and bearing to satisfy his need to know she too was well. Joan took out her ticket and boarding pass and looked up at the gate information board for her flight so he would know where she was going.

Sherlock dove into his inside jacket pocket and produced a pen and small notepad onto which he scribbled. Joan instantly deduced what he was planning and found a piece of paper and pencil in her purse. He glanced up and caught sight of her writing and suppressed a smile. Watson always caught on fast. Damn, he missed her.

He tore off the piece of paper from the pad and put it in his outside jacket pocket. Joan glanced up discreetly from her writing to see what he was doing. She folded the small notecard she had written on in fourths and placed it in the outside pocket of her purse. He watched her out of the corner of his eye.

The anemic kid was oblivious to their interaction as were their other fellow passengers. Joan gathered her purse and luggage and stood. Sherlock watched her in as much of a disinterested manner as he could manage and fidgeted with his own bag.

Timing was going to be crucial for them. There would only be one chance. She walked away from the seating area and started walking in the direction of where Sherlock sat. On her movement, he stood casually, collected his things and started walking towards her but not looking at her. If anyone had stopped to look, the glint of pleasure in both their eyes was obvious. She missed this. She missed him. They were on a collision course.

She knocked her shoulder into him and he bumped into her side.

Sherlock grabbed at her wrist to keep her from tumbling. Joan put her hand on his chest to steady herself. "I'm sorry, miss, are you alright?" his manner impersonal and polite as he stared into her eyes and tried to glean every emotion registered in them. She felt the warmth of his hand on her wrist, the small rub of his thumb and slight caress as he let his hand slide slowly off her. Joan's hand at his chest moved tenderly down an inch or two, the small pressure of her fingers reassuring him of her sentiments. His eyes were wide and warm and safe and she just wanted to crawl into him but knew the moment was passing quickly.

"Yes, I'm fine. And you?" She said softly.

"Likewise." And they were parting ways, "Thank you. Safe travels to you." He smiled politely.

"And you," she reciprocated his politeness. One more quick dive into each other's eyes and they walked away in opposite directions.

Sherlock kept walking away from her without turning back, his hand fondling the notecard he had lifted from Joan's purse, before putting it away. He had to admit, she was very good, an excellent pickpocket. Even knowing what she was doing, he barely felt her hand in his pocket taking the note he placed there for her. Of course, his focus had been shifted to the hand on his chest and the soft, warm feel of her skin as he touched her wrist ... He stopped himself from this train of thought and refocused on finding the correct gate for his flight. It was going to be a long flight to Ulan Batur and he'd have plenty of time to analyze their brief encounter.

Joan didn't look at the note she had lifted from Sherlock's coat pocket until she was safe on board her flight and away from any possibly prying eyes. She unfolded the small piece of paper with the look of a child unwrapping a piece of candy. She could hear his voice in each word:

"Watson,

Judging from your expression, you are just as surprised to see me as I you, and hopefully equally as pleased. By your appearance I surmise you are doing well and I am glad. I will most likely be back in NYC in about a month's time. No need for worries on my behalf. BTW your haiku was a great help to me, personally and professionally. My heartfelt thanks. Keep safe. - S."

She re-read the note several times before she re-folded it and tucked it away for safekeeping. Joan closed her eyes and drew in and expelled a deep breath of relief. He was fine. He was coming home. Joan realized this was not what Dr. Reed had in mind for her when she urged her to travel, but things had a way of fixing themselves.

Having satisfied himself that, as far as he could see, for the moment, his traveling companions were a sedate lot, Sherlock finally allowed himself the pleasure of reading Watson's note.

"Sherlock,

I'm so happy to at least get to see you. Everything is fine at home, looking forward to your return. I'm going to Florence by way of Milan, staying with friends and will return in approx. 3 weeks. Please be careful and take care of yourself for me.

Joan.

P.S. Lose the beard, W."

A half-snorted chuckle escaped his lips as he stroked his beard. He liked the beard but he would bow to her wishes and shave before next he saw her. Sherlock's thoughts turned to the future wondering if he and Watson might be able to resume their friendship, partnership, life together. In an odd way, he felt closer to her now than he had four months ago when he left. They still had much to talk about but he was feeling optimistic.


	9. Chapter 9

Italy was sheer beauty and indulgence. Time had apparently stopped once the old masters set brush to canvas; the Tuscan countryside looked very much like its renaissance likeness. The food was spectacular, fresh, bright, paired with wines the gods would be pleased to sip. And the company, ah, her friends were warm and cheerful, fun and full of life. Joan was enjoying herself; but for all the perfection of the trip something felt slightly off. She was antsy and not completely at ease. She told herself it was a manifestation of her recent traumas, but really it wasn't. She told herself it was Sherlock, she missed him and was worried about him, a symptom of codependency. But no, that wasn't it either. She was not too worried about him though she did miss him.

At one of the many multi-course dinners she enjoyed throughout the trip, Joan took a good look around the table and realized she saw the world very differently than her friends. They were happy just to sit and enjoy the moment and she could not, not fully anyway. Her attention was pulled into the dark corners, drawn to the waiter who was obviously put out by something the owner said to him. The owner in turn reviewed his days receipts over and over becoming more agitated as he did; something didn't add up. The owner's wife flirted with a customer, a regular by the looks of him, and this seemed to upset the waiter and to a lesser extent the owner. From those observations, Joan started trying to solve a mystery that most probably did not exist. Her friends laughed at her and told her she was looking for trouble; she should instead try the just harvested figs. But her mind needed occupation. The books she read, conversations she had, concerts and dinners attended, all occupied her on a superficial level only. She needed more.

His words came back to her, "It has its costs ... seeing the puzzle in everything." Was this the cost? The sense that there was so much going on beneath the surface of the everyday, seeing the connections and the possibilities and not having any one else understand or care about what you saw or felt or solved? Is this how Sherlock led his life? She wondered if this was the result of his training, living with him, being influenced by his view of the world.

Joan sighed ... Of all things! Her friends had started singing after dinner. She discreetly left the table and took her drink to the veranda. The moon rose slowly over the Tuscan hills, casting silvery light on the cypresses and the rocky outcrops, causing shadows to appear in the darkness.

No, she thought, this was not Sherlock's doing. She had always had this fuzzy sensation, this feeling there was more, and it had kept her separated from others. This "difference" had always been there for her, waiting just below the surface. Meeting Sherlock, being drawn into his world, allowed her to come into herself, to rise and ask questions, make connections and not be ridiculed. He was like a prism through which she passed. Sherlock focused her diffused light and separated it into all the colors of the spectrum, a rainbow to then, in turn, guide him. Hmm, she smiled at herself for getting a bit carried away - too much Chianti and moonlight she supposed, but there was truth at the core. The question now was whether she wanted to continue on this path or turn back to a life of less intrigue and challenges, a more normal existence, like her friends and family wanted for her. Joan knew the answer and knew her family and friends would not understand; having hidden her true nature from them for so long, they'd see this as an aberration. But did it really matter what they thought at this point?

Joan came to terms with what she wanted and who she was on the trip. Dr. Reed had been right. It cleared her head. Getting away from Sherlock's environment made her realize it was not just his world she lived in, it was her world too. She was ready to go home.

Ulan Batur was cold and the remnants of soviet architecture was not the cheeriest of environs to work and live in. But Mongolia and its people were certainly fascinating. Sherlock enjoyed his first sighting of a yak in the countryside, studying the construction and deconstruction of a yurt, tasting the traditional butter tea, partaking in traditions that have remained unchanged for centuries. But when all was said and done, he was ready to go back to his old life. Sherlock missed Watson and the friends he hoped waited for him back in New York. It was an odd feeling for him, this longing for comrades. Misanthropy surely was easier, yes, elegant as he had once told Watson, but it was not very satisfying. He was under no delusion that things would be the same once he returned, but he was willing to work at making them better.


	10. Chapter 10

Joan was through the front door of the brownstone before the cab had even had a chance to pull out from its parking spot. She rolled in her luggage and set it by the coatrack. Why she gave the cabbie this address instead of that of her new apartment she hadn't been sure; but looking around as she removed her coat, feeling the comfortable embrace of the old house welcome her, she understood. She walked into the library and took a big happy breath. Everything looked perfect. Ms. Hudson deserved a raise, if only she could afford to give her one. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Angus on the red sofa, sitting on a cushion rather than his perch on the mantle. Ms. Hudson must have forgotten to set him back up she thought.

"Hi, Angus," she picked him up and gave a small kiss on his cracked forehead.

"Well, if you are giving away kisses..." The unexpected voice behind her startled her and Angus leapt out of her hands. Sherlock lunged forward and together he and Joan saved Angus from a great fall.

Joan looked up in complete surprise. "Sherlock! When did you get here?"

They stood close, both holding on to the porcelain bust. "Two days ago," Sherlock answered as he took Angus out of her hand but still kept it between them. "I spent last night having a heart to heart with our boy here," patting the top of the bust's head with his free hand. "... Never put him away properly."

Sherlock's eyes flitted across her face, took in her stance, her apparel. She looked different, more relaxed perhaps, but excited and utterly beautiful. A happy warmth filled him at finally being able to see her, talk to her after all these months apart. He was not sure what to make of it and all he managed after several seconds of staring at her was a breathy "Hi." She reciprocated with her own, whispered "Hi," equally as amazed to suddenly have him in front of her.

Sherlock broke his gaze, cleared his throat and tried to reclaim control of himself, "You've just arrived from the airport?" he said more as a statement than a question.

Joan nodded her affirmation. It was her turn to appraise him and she logged the slightly apprehensive look and the excited tenseness with which he held himself.

Realizing that Angus was being gently squeezed between them, Sherlock turned his body without stepping away from her and carefully set Angus back down on the sofa. With the physical impediment between them removed, Joan instinctively moved a little closer towards him. Without thought, her hand reached up gently and touched his cheek. "You shaved off your beard?" She let her fingers caress his face, feeling the little bit of stubble that was growing back in. Joan quickly realized the boldness of her action but it was too late, she did not want to take her hand away.

Startled at first by the physical contact, it took Sherlock a second to find his voice, "You told me to..." Unable to help himself he leaned lightly into her hand enjoying the caress, his eyes on her face.

"And you do whatever I say?" She teased and found herself being pulled in closer by his eyes.

"Absolutely..." He responded with a half smile.

"... Sometimes." His half smile faded and intensity began to build in his eyes.

"On occasion ..." Emboldened by the look in her eyes, he slowly moved his face so he could kiss her palm as it lay on his cheek. Joan's eyes closed trying to hide the overwhelming pleasure the small act gave her. His hand covered hers and he brought it down from his face to his chest. No longer able to restrain herself, Joan moved forward and wrapped her arms tightly around his body, laying her head on his shoulder. Sherlock responded immediately, bringing her closer to him, a hand on her head, the other stroking the small of her back.

Joan nestled in his neck. "God, I missed you," she whispered and his arms tightened even more around her in response.

Sherlock took several deep breaths, attempting to remain in control, before he responded, his lips close to her ear, "I was under the impression you hated me." He was trying to sound flippant but she heard the pain underneath.

Joan pushed away from him just far enough to search his face, not believing he could be serious. His eyes spoke volumes to her of his insecurity, his fear, his past of being left behind and excluded. Joan stroked his face once more tenderly and gave him a small wry smile, "For a smart man, you can be such an idiot."

Looking at her, the tenseness around his eyes and mouth dissipated and a thin smile formed, feelings of relief and affection surfaced in his eyes.

Sherlock reached towards her and brushed a strand of wayward hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear as they continued to stare at one another, bodies tightly held.

The moment was passing quickly and Sherlock was unsure of how to proceed, of what was the wrong or right thing to say or do. The physicality was new for them, and awkwardness was beginning to seep in.

"Are you hungry?" he asked quietly with the same emotional intensity as a declaration of affection. "I ... I was making soup for myself and there's plenty." He nodded to assure her, although he wasn't sure of what.

She nodded her head yes. Joan too felt awkward, "Let me wash up and I'll ... I'll be right down."

"Alright." Sherlock moved his arms from around her and turned to walk away but just as quickly turned back towards her. He bent his head and stole one quick wisp of a kiss from her (in case he never got the chance again) and turned once more and rapidly headed for the stairs. He was completely unable to emotionally or intellectually process exactly what had just occurred between himself and Watson, but knew he was very pleased by it.

Stunned, Joan watched him walk away towards the stairs, the feeling of his lips on hers still tingling and smiled to herself. She too had not expected what occurred between them but she too was pleased.

Two steamy bowls of home-made soup greeted her as she walked towards the table. Sherlock had obviously been feeling domestic. She wondered what kind of soup he had made.

"Split pea curry soup." He stated, leaving her almost wondering if she had asked the question out loud. It smelled wonderful.

He brought a plate of warm naan to the table when he sat down to join her.

"You weren't expecting anyone were you?" she asked. He was not usually one to cook for just himself.

"No." He helped himself to the bread and passed the plate over to her. "If you must know, I was feeling a bit lonely and out of sorts and thought the cooking would help." Sherlock looked thoroughly embarrassed by his admission.

"I'm glad you did," she gave him a pleased look, that they held a second too long before turning their attention to the soup.

Sitting here at the table, sharing a meal together, was such a small thing, but they had both individually longed for moments like this since their separation. The soup was delicious and they ate in content silence.

Joan didn't want to bring this up but she decided this was probably the best time to do so. "You do know I've moved out, right?"

"Yes, it was a rather difficult deduction but I figured it out." He shot her a glance, as if to remind her who he was.

"Just checking, sometimes you are blind to what you don't like," she kept her tone soft.

After a few seconds of silence he asked, "Watson, do you intend to come back home at some point ... perhaps?" He looked like a scared child waiting for her answer. Before she could respond, he cleared his throat and threw on his armored shell, "Not that it matters, you're a grown woman obviously, you can do what you like. ... I just need to know if I can start working on bringing down the apiary..." His face was still pointed at his soup but his eyes shifted to the side to catch a glimpse of her response.

Joan was caught off guard and answered him as honestly as she could. "I don't know. ... Could you give me some time though, before you start bringing the bees down to my room?"

His shoulders relaxed, "Of course." He continued eating. "Besides I've not yet had the heart to tell the bees that you've gone..."

She looked at him trying to decipher the comment and instead decided to change the subject, "How were your travels?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that, unfortunately, even with you. Suffice it to say "those people" and I shan't be working together again for a long time to come but we both got what we needed from our collaboration."

It was her turn to talk into her soup, "I'm still angry about that you know ... About you leaving ..."

He interrupted her, "You were leaving me, I thought it was best for both of us."

"How? How did you think that was best?" Anger rose in her voice. "You didn't even talk to me you just left ... When I really needed ..." Joan stopped talking, emotion was overwhelming her and she didn't want to breakdown in front of him. She rose and took her bowl to the sink. As she stood there trying to compose herself, she sensed Sherlock come up behind her.

Sherlock did something that took more courage from him than any criminal investigation ever had. He came up behind her and gently placed his hands on her waist, moving his body close to hers, his cheek along side her head. He took a breath, "I'm sorry, Watson. Truly. I spent months berating myself for the choice I made. It's no comfort now, I know. I'm boorish and selfish. I've lived alone my whole life." His voice became less agitated as she placed one of her hands on his where it lay on around her waist. "I didn't take your feelings into account; I just assumed what was right for me was right for you. I spent so many days, nights, weeks besieged with worry and fear for you, for what I'd done to you..." She leaned back into him and he held her closer to him. "I was wrong to leave ... I'm sorry."

Joan turned to look at him and was overcome with emotion at the sight of him. She'd seen many of his tossed off apologies in the past two years, but this was Sherlock at his most open and vulnerable. The kiss that he stole from her upstairs, she now gave freely to him. Months of fear and frustration at not seeing each other, not communicating, not being with each other, poured out of both of them in a desperate need. There was no thought involved as they came together, lips open and passionately seeking out the other. His hand threaded through her hair as he grasped and pulled her closer to him, his mouth laying a trail of opened mouth kisses on her neck as it rose to meet her mouth. Joan's hand clasped the back of his neck crushing him to her. This kiss took both their breaths away, left them speechless and wanting more.

He cupped her face in hand and stared into her eyes finding acceptance and caring for him spilling out. Joan moved to kiss him again when a phone's ring on the counter behind her made her jump. They turned and looked at it, Captain Gregson was calling.

He looked at her questioningly. "I told him I was available, should he need me."

They still clung to one another. She nodded her head yes, there was no doubt he should answer, "Get your breathing under control first."

Sherlock took one long big breath, exhaled and answered, "Captain Gregson, how can we be of service?"


	11. Chapter 11

It was almost one in the morning by the time they set up shop in her new apartment. Joan had not been there in weeks and needed to get a change of clothes. The decision was made quickly - they could work here just as well as at the brownstone. Sherlock made himself at home spreading papers, photos, clippings on the ivory carpeting in her living room. The space was minimalist, very white and too bright for Sherlock's tastes. Joan was not thrilled with it either but it had come furnished, it was a month to month and it was reasonable. They sat on the floor, took apart the pieces of the case and dove into the familiar process of solving the puzzle.

Forty-five minutes went by without a word from either of them. Something was bothering Sherlock. He couldn't concentrate. His eyes kept leaving the file notes and landing on his partner. Watson failed to notice. Having flown in from Europe and then agreeing to work this case with him with not even a moment to catch her breath, she was exhausted. He caught her mid-yawn.

"Watson, why don't you go lay down? You are of no use in your present state and you are a ... a ... distraction rather than a help."

"Excuse me? I'm a distraction?" Joan felt insulted. She was going above and beyond trying to keep working, mainly because she had missed their collaboration these past months, missed doing the work with him.

"Yes." He really did not want to have to elaborate.

"How so? I've never been a distraction before?"

Sherlock sighed and looked at her, "Never mind how, you just are. Go take a nap. You'll feel better. And I might be able to get some work done."

She stared at him, so tired she was punchy. He stole glances of her from under his lashes, hoping she was too tired to figure out why she was distracting him.

She kept staring. He kept trying to work and ignoring her but his eyes kept sidling towards her, drinking in and analyzing her smallest movements, bringing back images and feelings from yesterday.

Joan crawled over to where he sat and looked over his shoulder, attempting to read the file he was holding and breathing on his neck, rather purposefully he thought.

Sherlock put down the file, turned and stared her right in the face. "Alright, Watson. That's enough. You are overly tired and not yourself. I insist you go lay down," he was adamant.

She stared at him and, after a few long seconds, quietly said, "Alright, I will. Feel free to join me if you'd like, you look exhausted as well."

"Watson! Please ... Go." Sherlock didn't know if the seductiveness of her at this moment was just his perception or she was actually trying to lure him to bed with her. He smirked at himself - the thought that Watson would actually have to "lure" him anywhere was ridiculous. He'd go anywhere willingly, do anything for her gratefully ...

He tried to turn his attention back to the work, to concentrate on stripping out the suspects and peripherals, the evidence, photos, ephemera, examining and finding relationships, then stepping back to find the gestalt of ... It was no use. Sherlock was also tired and he couldn't stop thinking about Watson, asleep in the other room. Their relationship was in the process of a rebirth. He considered their months apart as time spent in metamorphosis, cocooned. Yesterday afternoon they cracked open the chrysalis and, stretching the metaphor into a thin silken thread, one could say they were inching their way out but not yet ready to fly.

Sherlock suddenly bounced up from his position on the floor; he would just check on her, make sure she was alright.

Watson's bedroom was dark but enough light filtered through the windows from the street lamps below to allow him to make his way to her bed. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw she lay on her side, fully clothed on top of the bedspread, sound asleep. He noted that this bedroom was laid out much the same as hers back home and with the same dearth of personalization.

He watched her sleep. A sense of peace, a calmness, overtook him. Sherlock convinced himself he could just lay next to her, fully clothed, wouldn't touch her; he just wanted to be near her right now, just for a few minutes, and then he'd get back to work.

Carefully, making sure not to wake her, he lay down on his side, facing her. He watched her breathe and soon his breathing matched hers. Sherlock felt himself getting drowsy. His hand moved towards hers. He needed to touch her, to bind himself with her in someway as they slept, lest she slip away. His hand lay next to hers and he moved his index finger so it lay gently in her palm. They slept.


	12. Chapter 12

The chill of early October roused Joan from her sleep. Confused, not sure where she was - Italy, airplane, home - her eyes opened and focused. In the dim light, she saw Sherlock. He lay on his side, in his shirtsleeves, his face not more than a foot away from hers, sound asleep. His fingers lay lightly in the palm of her hand. Wherever she was, she was safe. Memories clicked into place. She wondered how long she had been asleep. The room was still quite dark and the muted sounds of the city night came through the closed apartment window: the rev of a motor, the far off cry of a siren, the hollow laughter from the street below as the last of the partygoers headed home. All of it told her she was back in New York, but having him there with her, told her she was home.

Joan shivered. He was asleep on top of the covers and she didn't want to wake him. Sliding her hand carefully from under his fingers, she managed to get out of bed without disturbing her partner. In the closet she found the big quilt that her Aunt Lettie had made for her. Technically, she was a step-aunt but Aunt Lettie had always loved Joan as her own and the feeling was mutual. She shook out the quilt and got back into bed, carefully extending it over Sherlock making sure to cover his back. He moved in his sleep and as she hovered over him, drew his arm up and around her waist and gently brought her down to lay by his side. Joan covered herself and he settled in next to her with a satisfied sigh. Warm, safe and comfortable, she quickly fell back to sleep.

-:- -:- -:- -:- -:-

The morning light filled the room. Joan woke before Sherlock, a rarity she ascribed to her body not yet having processed the change in time zones. They had spooned for most of their time in bed together but he was now sprawled on his stomach, an arm and a leg over her. She remembered having seen this particular sleep habit of his before, usually with the red sofa. Joan extricated herself quietly and decided to fix breakfast for him much as he had done for her on so many occasions at the brownstone.

On her way to the kitchen, she heard a noise at her front door and noticed the doorknob being turned. Flashbacks to her abduction flooded her and panic rose. She needed to warn Sherlock, she needed to get away, yet she stood rooted in horror. The door began to open. Joan picked up a lamp to throw at her assailant and screamed Sherlock's name. In a blur of motion and cacophony of sound, Sherlock came running into the room, barefoot and disheveled, calling out for her "Watson! what's wrong?" Joan threw the lamp in the direction of the opening door screaming "Get out," and Emily with Joan's key in her hand screamed and crouched out of the way of the lamp as it crashed into the doorjamb behind her.

"It's just me, it's just me!" a very frightened Em said from the little curl of a ball she had made herself into.

Standing behind her, Sherlock realized what was going on and held on to a Joan's shoulders murmuring over and over, "It's alright Watson, it's alright." He felt Joan trembling and pressed his body close to hers, "It's just Emily. You're alright. I'm here."

Sherlock looked towards Emily who had now realized she was in no danger. "Are you alright?" he asked her. She nodded and stood.

Joan finally responded. "I'm okay, I'm okay." Sherlock rubbed her upper arms and moved her towards the sofa. "I over reacted. I guess I'm not quite through with those flashbacks," she tried to laugh at herself.

He got Joan seated and Emily came and sat next to her. Sherlock was kneeling in front of Joan, holding her hands. "Take a breath and let it out..." Joan did as asked.

"I'm alright, really." She reassured him.

He took a moment to visually confirm what she was saying and when satisfied, let go of her hands. "How about I make us all some tea, hmm?" Joan smiled and nodded. Emily, who was still rather stunned by it all, looked from one to other. Sherlock went off in the direction of the kitchen.

Emily reached for Joan's arm, "I was going to air the place out, water the plants. I thought you were due back tonight."

Joan patted Emily's hand, "I caught an earlier flight, got back yesterday mid-day."

"And promptly made a mess of things," Emily tried to lighten the mood as she surveyed the nest of documents, photos and files on the floor before her.

"Sherlock is not one to pick up after himself," Joan said with a smile. "Plus, you don't want to break the connections you are visually forming until you have ..." She stopped talking upon seeing the look on her friend's face.

Emily's smile faded and her voice dropped, "I was so hoping the time away would help you realize you have other options, that you can do better." She followed the comment with a concerned little smile.

Joan was not amused. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Nothing really... I just thought that once you got away from his circle of influence, you might realize that this, this life is not for you. That you have other options. I mean this is not normal." Emily whispered, "He is not normal. This is not you. Look at you."

Joan had finally had enough. "This is me, Emily." She pointed to their work spread on the floor before them. "If that doesn't fit into your notion of acceptable or normal, then I guess, I am not normal, we are not normal. As for being under Sherlock or anyone else's influence, for the first time in a very long time I am making my own choices and not trying to please others."

Emily tried to placate her, "That's not what I meant ..."

Joan needed to get this out and she continued, "Meeting Sherlock was one of the best things that has happened to me. He held up a mirror and let me rediscover myself, the self that I've kept hidden away all my life because she wasn't "normal."

"Joan, I didn't ..." Emily realized she had upset Joan and that had not been her intention.

"It's not your fault, Em. I've kept myself to myself for most of my life. Trying to fit into what everyone else wanted for me. A great profession, a husband, family, ... and I've tried but that's just not me. I am this, with or without Sherlock. He accepts me as I am, doesn't ask me to change, and cares for me no matter what, the way I care for him. And this life that I've chosen, that I have decided to lead with him is exactly what I want. I took the time, I sorted it all out and at the end of the day, this is what I want from my life, preferably with him."

-:-:- -:-:-

Sherlock stood in front of the stove intently watching the kettle. He had heard every word spoken between Joan and her friend. The apartment was small and his hearing was acute. He was by turns elated, scared, perplexed, angered, touched. For a man who did not process emotions well, all this left him overwhelmed. He continued staring at the kettle waiting for the stream of steam to rise. It had gotten very quiet in the other room.

He heard her walk in but continued staring at the spout rather than turning to look at her.

"Emily just left. She had to get to work."

Sherlock nodded his head, "Mmm." He moved his eyes to look at her. She was staring at the teapot. Joan assumed he'd heard most of their conversation and didn't know what to say at this point. She became aware of his gaze and turned to it.

They stood there, neither speaking, searching each other's faces until the steamy whistle of the kettle broke their trance. Sherlock turned his attention to the stove top, and spoke facing it rather than her, "What say we have our tea and then move our work back the brownstone? We have more resources there at our disposal."

"Yes." Joan readily agreed. Anything to break the awkwardness of his knowing how she felt and not acknowledging it or his feelings.

"Good." He poured the water into the waiting teapot, placed the lid on and turned to her. "Cups?" She took a step towards the cupboard in front of him and swiftly found herself enveloped tightly in his arms, his lips at her ear, "Thank you." She tightened her grip on him in response.

And just as quickly as it happened, they pulled apart. Sherlock spoke to the floor, "If you'll pour, I'll start putting the files back in the box for transport. I have a theory we can hash out over tea." He bobbed his head, looked quickly at her with a flick of a smile and left the kitchen.

Joan stood happily bemused for a second and then moved to get the cups.


	13. Chapter 13

It had been exactly 25 hours and 17 minutes since he overheard Joan's conversation with Emily. It had been approximately 30 hours since they had (platonically) slept together. It had been exactly 46 hours and 24 minutes since they had shared that toe-curling kiss that left him so desperate for more. It had been 48 hours since they reunited after 5 months apart.

And now here he sat, beside her, stealing sidelong glances, while Capt. Gregson droned on.

They were in the back area of the meeting room, on a cushioned bench. The room itself was full of NYPD's finest listening to the captain's status update on the current case. Joan and Sherlock sat close, almost touching but not quite. That had been the status quo for the past day - almost but not quite. Sherlock didn't know what to say or do and Joan was equally hesitant to make the first move. Instead of dealing with the elephant in the room, they concentrated on the work, immersed themselves in the data while stealthily observing each other for any minute deviation in behavior that would provide an inkling as to how to proceed.

Joan sat uncomfortably beside Sherlock. Inadvertently, she had more or less declared her feelings for him yesterday when she set Emily straight or at least she thought she had. Perhaps he didn't understand, perhaps he didn't share her feelings ... But that kiss two days ago! Was it just lust, not anything more? Sherlock long ago said he was post love. Was it conceit on her part to think his rules were different where she was concerned? Oh, but that kiss ... a warm flutter wafted through her at the memory.

Sherlock noticed the slight shudder and looked at her. In her eyes he saw her soul open for him. He sat immobile with the look on his face of someone long kept on the outside, staring longingly at an open door. Fear of being turned out when everything he wanted was within grasp kept him immobile. She looked away embarrassed.

His breathing accelerated slightly. His fingers drummed nervously on his thigh drawing her attention to his fingers, and his thighs. She stared. He caught the look on her face again as she raised her eyes to his. Her breathing accelerated.

Sherlock readjusted his jacket and discreetly moved closer to Watson so that their knees and arms lightly touched. Watson leaned in toward him. They looked at each other again. He bit his upper lip, a nervous habit. A habit she had always found slightly erotic which set off a small catch to her breathing.

That did it. He wanted her now. He couldn't wait much longer, nor could she.

Unfortunately, Captain Gregson was not quite through with his briefing on the case. The officers and detectives at the meeting listened attentively.

Joan looked at Sherlock, pressed her lips together and slightly parted them. The look on her face was almost beatific. Sherlock could take no more. He knew what he was about to do might be a touch unethical but his accuracy rate was very high in these matters and he believed there was a 77% chance he might be right. He had to cut Gregson's ramblings short.

"Captain?" His arm shot up and his voice was perhaps a tad too loud. The roomful of men and women turned to looked at him. Gregson motioned for him to continue.

"Captain, I believe the blood spatters from the victim's initial wound will show that the perpetrator was left-handed. I believe we only have one suspect currently who is of the sinister persuasion so perhaps we should hold off expending any more energies until you've spoken with him."

Blank stares met his comments. Sherlock continued, "Watson and I have a rather important matter to attend to, so if you will excuse us." He flashed an insincere grin, then turned to Watson, "Shall we?" and stood.

Watson, long accustomed to following his lead no matter how ridiculous, smiled at the captain, "Excuse us, we're late already..."

She stood and they both quickly exited the meeting and the building. They hit the sidewalk at a good clip, putting distance between themselves and the station while just as quickly closing the gap between them as they walked. His hand found hers and clasped it tightly. She took a deep breath of satisfaction at his touch. Sherlock steered them into the recessed doorway of a closed shop. They huddled for a second, forehead to forehead, reconnecting, before they stepped into a deep and passionate kiss, her back against the door, his back hiding her from onlookers. Her hand found his waist under his jacket and held on. Too much time denying their emotions had left them like hormone ridden teenagers with little self-control.

His hand cupped her face as their lips separated, "I don't think I'm going to make it back to the brownstone, Watson ..." He gave her a soft kiss biting at her lower lip.

"The Algonquin," she spoke into his mouth, her words mere whispers. "I've always wanted to stay at the Algonquin."

She could have said she wanted to go to the moon and, for her, he would have found a way. The Algonquin was just seven or eight blocks from where they stood, but still too far to walk in their current state. He took her hand once again and led her to the curb. Sherlock pulled out his cab whistle, Joan cringed and with one shrill tweet they were on their way.

The small dark wood lobby of the hotel quietly welcomed them. Their request for a room met with some resistance from the day clerk - no rooms available, housekeeping was still making the rounds, etc. Sherlock, with no remorse, used the cachet of his father's name to his benefit. A small room was miraculously found for them. Small was not a problem; Joan's only requirement for a room at this point was a door. They gladly took the room.

They entered the elevator. Both stared straight ahead as the door slowly closed and the motion upwards started. Sherlock bent down and across, his face appearing before hers. Control on both their parts was momentarily lost until the elevator's ding announcing arrival on their floor separated them like prizefighters.

Joan felt seventeen again. She hung on to his waist, finger looped through his belt as they searched the dark halls for their room. It took Sherlock several swipes of the keycard to unlock the door; he held it open and let her in first.

Once inside the room, the monumentality of the moment briefly stopped them. After this, there would be no going back. Joan reached for him first, placing her hand on his chest, she felt the excited beating of his heart. He felt the warmth of her hand through his shirt; the confirmation he needed. For future reference, he noted that it is possible to clasp tightly to another and undress each other at the same time.

All logic and temerity abandoned them as the soft cloud of white linen caressed, gave way underneath and drew them deep into each other. Months upon months of desire was unleashed and allowed freedom until spent. Struggling for breath, their satisfied bodies incapable of further movement, they lay wrapped around each other savoring the moment.

Sherlock managed to raise his head and look at her, disheveled hair spread out across the pillow in black streams, the remains of mascara smeared lightly beneath her eyes and her lips in a small smile. Beautiful. He lowered his head overcome with emotion and her lips briefly found his forehead. Sherlock found his place in the crook of her neck, eyes closed, settling in while her hand stroked his hair and kept him in place.

Her hushed tone broke the quiet of the moment. "Sherlock, promise me you'll never leave like that again." She drew a heavy breath, "Promise me. Trust in me enough to tell me how you feel."

He raised his head over hers, supporting himself on elbows to either side of her. Sherlock stared deep into her eyes. "I promise. I will." The conviction in his voice made her dark eyes glassy with tears. He continued, "But you need to promise me the same." She closed her eyes to stop the tears from flowing and shook her head yes, not trusting her voice.

Joan felt him lightly kiss her closed eyes and then felt his warm breath at her ear. "Come back home ... please ... come back home." His voice, soft yet sonorous with emotion, pleaded with her. "It's not just the work, Watson, I want you there with me. We are partners. I want to share our ... " He took a breath and looked up at her, "If you need to hear the word, for you I'll say it. ..."

She stopped him, "I know its difficult for you to say. I wouldn't ask that of you. ..." Joan smiled at him and stroked the side of his face. "...rather I would ask you to consider a proposal... Let me stay on permanently ..."

Sherlock realized she was paraphrasing his words, and beamed in delight. "Yes!" he rolled over on to his back and took her with him so she lay upon his chest.

Joan kissed his stubbly chin, "Actually, I started packing last night."

"What?" He feigned mock indignation, "That was extremely presumptuous of you, Watson ... " His hands roamed under the sheets to places that made her giggle and soon they were lost within each other once more.

-:- -:- -:-

Epilogue:

Sherlock came home after attending a meeting with Alfredo. He had helped Watson move back into the brownstone earlier in the day. Sherlock radiated contentment.

He caught the light and crackle of the fire coming from the library and turned. Where the ottoman usually sat, an overstuffed chair, upholstered in material with a thin grey and blue stripe pattern presented itself. Watson sat upon the chair, feet tucked in under her, looking rather enticing.

"What do you think?" She asked him as he crossed the room and sat in his chair opposite her.

"I think it rather suits you Watson, ... Or I mean the room, it suits the room ... It will make it easier to converse when we are working or ..." He stared at her, the firelight playing across her face enhanced her beauty.

"Good." She smiled at him as she stood. "Come on upstairs and let me show you what I did with the bedroom."

He returned her smile, stood and followed her upstairs.


End file.
